


Phoenix

by PrisiaLex



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:37:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrisiaLex/pseuds/PrisiaLex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's gradually rising from the ashes with life lessons in tow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously.
> 
> As always, I don't think I executed it the way I want it to and how it should be, but I posted it anyway. This is unbeta'd. English is not my mother tongue. Reviews/criticisms are highly appreciated but not necessary.

He feels empty and numb. Sadness hidden behind the mesmerizing eyes of his.

He recalls the night when he found out about Irene Adler's "death". He was shocked, disbelief evident on his face. His mouth hanging open, brows furrowed, and eyes full of sadness. He thought maybe he  _did_  liked her. They weren't even close at that time but the sudden blow of the news of her apparent death gave away the human side of his.

But it's different now.

He sat up from his bed, his head and back against the headboard, then looked up from the ceiling and closed his eyes, his mind wandering once again around his infamous mind palace and ends up in a small white room. A room that he rarely visits for he rarely remembers it. But once again, whenever he visits it, the extreme guilt overwhelmes him, almost like eating him alive, when the memories of yesterday comes back,hunting him like the predator silently guarding his prey.

He had so much time before. Times that he should have told that he meant the things that he had said, and that he was sincere when he confessed something so human and sentimental.

But it was all too late now. He was so busy with the cases, drowning himself in it, that he didn't noticed the gravity of the situation. There was no more time to go back and change the aftermath of it. It was incurable, they say. It was a rare illness that no cure has been made yet, they say. Therefore, they have to accept the reality. But it was a reality that he hasn't accepted yet. It was especially hard when the words that are once left unspoken are suddenly ready to pour out of his mouth.

He's known for his keen observation. But now he realized that there are things that he had failed to observe.

* * *

The flat was eerily quite. His tall, lanky figure standing in front of the window, looking at the people and cars passing by, not aware that a consulting detective was staring at them with his mind blank.

He lifts up his violin and began playing, a poignant sad melody haunting the flat, and whoever hears it will send shivers down their spine and tears will start to fall from the corner of their eyes, just as like that is happening to the consulting detective.

* * *

The funeral went by. He refused to attend, preferring to stay in his flat, and plays the melody he composed days before. Weeks, months, and years went by. The consulting detective, though he came back to his old self, still grieves the pathologist's death. The woman who loved him for all he is. Who endured everything that he had said and still remained to stay. Who helped him through thick and thin. And yet he never thanked her.

He's not sure if he would ever meet another person who will accept and love him for who he is, yet will still remind him when he steps out of the line. But he doubts it. She's one in a million. He knew if souls could talk, she'll tell him to move on and continue with his passion as a consulting detective (and he does) but he's not sure if he will move on. She was a vital part of his life.

He's been a different man after her death. He had learned things from what had happened. He became more human unlike before. Though he's still cautious, he's gradually opening up but not forsaking his trademark stoic image. He's just like the phoenix waking up from the dead with a few helpful lessons given by his, yes,  _his_ , pathologist.

* * *

Once she told him she would like to see him play in a theater with his violin, even just once. And now he did. He owed her everything as much as he owes John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and especially his brother Mycroft, who shows his brotherly love in the most strangest ways.

He stood in front of hundreds of people, most were the people who have heard of him through the media, some were the people he had helped before, and a very small group of people who are close to him.

He lifts his violin and began to play the compositions he wrote for Molly Hooper.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Erm. Yeah. I don't know how I feel about the outcome of this fic. Feel free to leave constructive criticisms and/or reviews.


End file.
